


Sam's Very Own Norwegian Blue

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sam shook his head, a smile stretching his face. He couldn’t help it; the mighty Dean Winchester, Hunter Extraordinaire and Scourge of All Things Undead <i>was napping in the afternoon</i>. Sam started patting his pockets. He had to find his cell phone, get a shot with the time stamp nice and clear...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Very Own Norwegian Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solosundance](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=solosundance).



> Beta'd by the lovely Mara, this started off as napping Dean, and ended up as some kind of porny Monty Python sketch.

Sam sneezed for the third time in ten minutes and snapped the book shut. Which was stupid, because that wave of dust caused the loudest sneeze yet.

He gave the librarian his best aw-shucks smile and mouthed “sorry,” but she was apparently immune to dimples and young men who politely corrected her Latin and then shut themselves away with tomes no one had ever taken off the shelves before.

He looked out the window while he stretched and realigned a few of the bones in his back. Small town library chairs were never designed for people like him to sit in for... huh, three hours. It felt like longer. The sky was gray, it was two o’clock on a dull Thursday in Dullsville, Idaho and Sam still had no idea why a farmer and his dog seemed to be haunting an isolated house just outside of town.

Time to head back to the motel and see what Dean had come up with -- which was either nothing, or he’d solved it since breakfast.

Because the fucker was asleep. Booted-feet-crossed-at-the-ankles, air-puffing-out-of-his-mouth, flat-on-his-back-in-bed _asleep_.

Sam recovered from the shock and shut the door quietly behind him, resisting the urge—for now—to slam it and have fun. He stepped closer. Dean was still wearing the jeans and black T-shirt he’d been in when Sam had left him upright and researching that morning, and his hands were loosely clasped on a book tented over his ribs. Sam squinted. _Historical Maps of Pocatello_.

Sam shook his head, a smile stretching his face. He couldn’t help it; the mighty Dean Winchester, Hunter Extraordinaire and Scourge of All Things Undead _was napping in the afternoon_. Sam started patting his pockets. He had to find his cell phone, get a shot with the time stamp nice and clear and see if he couldn’t download it—

Dean shifted, scrunching his face up and resettling into the pillow as he swallowed, moistened his lips, and absently scratched at his T-shirt. It rode up, the book slipped, and Sam stopped looking for his cell phone. He might have stopped breathing for a second or two. It was that sliver of skin that did it, that honey toned triangle that opened up above Dean’s waistband; all smooth and lightly toned with muscle.

His cock twitched and he took a moment to stand there and let his body respond. He was still sore from last night, when Dean had crowded him into the shower and used little more than soap, hot water, and bruising kisses down his back to open him up. It had done the trick. Hell, Dean fucking _breathing_ on him did the trick most times. He shifted his weight and hitched up his jeans some more because the damn library chair hadn’t helped one bit. But this was Dean in repose for fuck’s sake, laid out and still as he rarely was in daylight hours. So yeah, his mouth got dry, his cock filled and his pulse hammered. He shrugged his jacket off, ran his hand through his hair, and thought about taking the time to shuck his boots, but what the hell, Dean hadn’t.

Dean was lying slightly off-center, so Sam arranged himself along the space down his brother’s right side, careful not to disturb him as he propped his head on his left palm on Dean’s pillow. He had no illusions that Dean was still oblivious to his presence, but just to make sure he dipped forward and kissed him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

No answer, and Dean’s eyes stayed closed, but the side of his mouth curved up and he tilted his head toward Sam. So Sam had to kiss him again for that. Just lightly, but he caught warmth and coffee and knew he would not be getting up again anytime soon. He looked down the bed and eased the book out of Dean’s loose clasp.

“I’m reading that,” came the slurred protest.

“Uh-huh. All of... wow, three pages, Dean.”

“It’s fucking boring. ’S why I’m... y’know...” he yawned, then turned more onto his side, seemingly determined to burrow into the new Sam-like pillow beside him. Sam was torn between finding this sleep-befuddled version of Dean incredibly endearing and incredibly hot. Then Dean sighed into his neck, Sam shivered, and endearing went the way of Christmas and birthdays. So he nudged Dean onto his back again and set about some burrowing of his own. Neck, chin, jawline...when he got to Dean’s right ear he bit the lobe and watched Dean squirm.

Dean’s eyes were still shut but his hips were starting to move. Sam grinned and moved his right hand down to the button above Dean’s fly.

“Solve the case yet, Serpico?” he asked, low and breathy into Dean’s ear.

Dean licked his lips, hips still moving. “Uh-huh. The parrot did it.”

“The what?” Sam pulled back and let go the button, sure now that Dean was still out of it.

But Dean was struggling up, blinking, and his hand went to the back of Sam’s neck to pull him back down.

“Sammeeee...”

Seriously, first napping and now _whining_? Sam was tempted to try out a “Christo,” but his mouth was pulled back to his brother’s before he had a chance. Dean relaxed under him, sucked his tongue in _hard_ , and suddenly dead dogs and demons were the last things on his mind.

His right hand went back to getting Dean’s fly all of the way open, while he held Dean down on the pillow with a slow, open-mouthed kiss.

“Sam...” said Dean, in a husky voice that buzzed against Sam’s lips.

“Nuh-uh. I got this one, Dean.”

Dean was trying to roll them over, put Sam on his back. In bed as in life, Dean had the same take-charge instinct he’d had all his born days with Sam. Something hot-wired into his heart and bones that could not let go, Sam figured, no matter how they touched each other. Sam was grateful and he loved him for it. But he loved it even more when he could get Dean to give all that vigilance up, just for a moment.

Sam held himself up, an inch or so off that beautiful, parted mouth. “Okay?”

Dean’s hand slid off Sam’s neck and back onto the bed. He nodded, bit his bottom lip, and Sam groaned.

“Dean...”

“What? I’m right...fucking... _here_.” Dean flexed his hips and his dick right into Sam’s waiting hand.

No more words. Sam took what Dean gave him, hard and heavy in his palm. He also took Dean’s mouth in the messiest, horniest make-out kiss he could come up with, moving his tongue and lips slow and wet over Dean’s, while he stroked and pulled and twisted his wrist up and up...

It didn’t take long. It never did when Sam had control like this. Something about Dean under him practically threw Sam off a cliff; like he was fifteen and under the bleachers again. His hand kept the same rhythm as his tongue, and when Dean started whimpering, low and needy in the back of his throat, it was all Sam could do to get his own dick out and into the equation in time. Dean had his hands fisted in Sam’s hair, so Sam was left to use his to bring their erections together. And the moment cock met cock it was all over, no more rhythm necessary.

Sam held on and kissed Dean through it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sam,” panted Dean when Sam finally let go. “What the fuck were you reading at the library?”

Sam was flat on his back, his left side squished against Dean. He’d wiped his hand on the bedspread, and now he turned his head to face his brother, monumentally pleased with himself and seriously close to some sex-loose giggling.

He swallowed, still catching his own breath.

“ _Whores R Us_. In Latin.”

It wasn’t funny. Not even a little, but they both looked at the ceiling and cracked up.

“Dick,” said Dean eventually, rubbing his cheek on Sam’s shoulder.

“No thanks, just had one.”

And they were off again.

Dean socked him in the arm. “Dude, seriously, you turn back into twelve after sex.”

“You _are_ twelve.”

“Way to prove my point, Sam. Now sober up, we’ve got a case, remember?”

Sam was still enjoying the luxury of lying next to Dean in the middle of the afternoon, all sexed out and with his boots on. Talk about fast and furious. A grin split his face when he turned to look at his brother.

“Sam, you are such a freakin’ goofball. _What_?” But for all Dean’s impatient bluster, he hadn’t moved an inch either. He was still pressed all along Sam’s left side.

Sam swallowed and suddenly felt like whispering. “You said the parrot did it. Were you dreaming?”

Dean pulled back and frowned, as if offended. “No, I wasn’t dreaming. It’s why I was asleep.”

It was Sam’s turn to frown. And then to still as Dean reached out and covered his hand, a calloused thumb rubbing an absent path over a small scar Sam had had on his knuckle for years.

Sam rolled onto his side to face Dean, careful not to move his hand or even look at it.

“First thing I found this morning after you left? Three photos taken over a hundred years in that house. Different families, different farmers. Same freakin’ parrot in each, I swear. Then I started reading that godawful map book to get a clue about what there was around the farm.”

“Dean, that’s...they could just be the same breed each time!”

“Nah, I’m telling you, Sammy. Ugly fucking thing. Big, too. And glaring outta the cage like it wanted to stick its claws in all of them.”

“But the kid—”

“Said howling, and we just assumed it was the old man’s missing dog. But a howl could be a screech, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to blast such nonsense out of the water. Then he looked at Dean’s raised eyebrows, looked at their hands on the rumpled bedspread, and snapped it shut. Not really much of a stretch at all when you fitted it into the Winchester way of the world.

“So...” he began, trying to take it seriously, “you really think the spirit’s a pissed off parrot?”

“Sure. Or it could be possessed. Remember that dog down in Tennessee last year? Those sons of bitches get inside animals, too. Come on,” Dean squeezed Sam’s fingers, and then he began to disentangle himself from the bed.

Dean got to his feet and started tucking in his shirt. Then he stopped suddenly and looked back at Sam, a strange expression on his face.

“What?” asked Sam.

“Dude,” Dean’s face was alight. “What if it’s a _zombie_?”

Sam had no choice but to fall back on the bed and hold his sides for a while. Only Dean could combine sex with the thrill of a possible zombie parrot and get off on both.

He got himself together, wiped his eyes and stood up. Dean was shaking his head and trying hard to scowl and look angry, but bedhead and a kiss-happy mouth were making him look nothing but blissed.

Sam smiled. He sometimes wondered if it would ever get old that he was the one doing that to Dean now.

Dean took a step forward, and Sam sensed the scowl might be about to get real. “I’m up, I’m up. Jeez. Just let me wash my hands and then I promise we can go kick some _major_ parrot ass.”

“You are not taking this seriously, Sammy. I’m heartbroken.”

“Yeah, well. Zip your pants up, Serpico, and I might.”

“Dude. A _zombie_.”

“Dude. A _parrot_.”

And that, thought Sam, as they stood there toe-to-toe, unwilling to give an inch and enjoying each other to the max, just about covered it.

******


End file.
